


Five Times Stiles Sees Derek's Dick and One Time Derek Does Something About It

by lizzehboo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Dick Jokes Galore, Drugged Drink, Isaac Hating Everyone, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Scott and Stiles Being Bros, Unbeta'd, stupidness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzehboo/pseuds/lizzehboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is just a floating head with a face. Yep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Stiles Sees Derek's Dick and One Time Derek Does Something About It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mydickisthealpha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydickisthealpha/gifts).



> Inspired by a friend on Tumblr. The username: mydickisthealpha. So. I was slightly intoxicated at some of this. Only some of it. I was definitely intoxicated when coming up with the ideas in this.
> 
> Judge me accordingly.

**1\. In the Bathroom that Smells Like Ladies' Shampoo**

“I'm healing, Stiles. Get out of here.”

Derek's voice is firm and annoyed, which is kind of a usual thing for him, so it doesn't even phase Stiles anymore. His voice echoes around them, ricocheting off the tile walls of the bathroom, mixed with the roar of the faucet as he showers.

“Hey, you're the one that showed up here and got blood all over my carpet. I'm not about to go waltzing around waiting for you to die in my bathroom. How would that look? Not good, Derek. Not good.”

“Your dad is a sheriff.”

“Yes, which makes it worse. Besides, you looked rough. I'm just here to make sure you get clean safely.”

“My hero,” Derek groans sarcastically and Stiles can practically hear his eyes roll. “I'll live. In fact, I can even bet you I'll stay conscious.” There's a long moment where Derek waits for movement but Stiles just stays sitting on the counter, kicking his feet. “I only asked you to bring me clothes. You left me long enough to go get them. I think I can manage bathing myself.”

“Not leaving, Derek. Too much horrible stuff has happened to everyone.”

“So you have trouble letting go. I get that.” Derek's voice is... well, Stiles thinks that if a person could speak in italics, it'd probably sound like that. “But get out before I rip your throat out-”

“With your teeth, yeah, I've heard.”

Derek snarls from behind the curtain. Stiles leans back against the mirror with a sigh.

“I can hurt you. I feel like you need to be reminded of that.”

“You're very good at threats.”

Derek grumbles something that Stiles can't hear, then pauses. “This is a woman's shampoo.”

“What?”

“This,” Derek says, holding the bottle out, snaking his arm around the edge of the curtain. “This is a shampoo for women.”

“What?” Stiles shakes his head. “I can't like Aussie? It smells nice and it makes my hair all nice and fluffy.”

“And the conditioner?” Derek sounds skeptical, like he is readying himself to ridicule Stiles for the rest of his life.

Which hey, that's not new to him either so.

“Makes it soft. People like soft hair, Derek.”

“And you would know this because?”

“Too mean,” Stiles huffs. “Use the damn product and get out of my shower, dude. I don't want to babysit you all day.”

“I _already told you to leave._ ”

Stiles chews his lip, because Derek is right. But he's not just hanging around in hopes that Derek's okay. He's just... okay, maybe he's being selfish. A lot of bad stuff _has_ happened lately, and he doesn't want to be the one that walked away. He's tired of all the death. So maybe he's being a worry wart. He doesn't care.

“Fine, maybe I don't have anything better to do,” he tries. “I mean, why does it even matter that I'm here? You wanna whack off and moan my name into the curtain? Is that it?”

“I'll make _you_ moan into the curtain,” Derek grumbles, and Stiles knows.

He _knows_ it's supposed to be a threat. He _knows that._ But. But.

But wording.

How do words.

How.

Derek.

Words.

Stiles is laughing before Derek can correct himself and he can hear the strangled, angry noise he makes over the hiss of the shower. And Stiles seriously can't stop. His entire stomach hurts and his eyes are tearing because _god damn it that is fucking funny._

“Stiles--” Derek growls, and this time it definitely sounds like a threat. Stiles has slid off the counter and is curled up on the floor, nursing his aching ribs but unable to stop. “Stiles, stop fucking laughing. It was a threat, you idiot.”

Stiles calms himself down, gets to his feet, and takes a breath. “You're right, Derek. You're right. I'm sorry. Do you want to punish me for it? Maybe spank me? Tell me I've been a _bad, bad boy?_ ” He dissolves into the most immature fit of giggles he can manage and then Derek is yanking the curtain back in a rage.

He's soaked, little rivulets of water tracing lines down his chest and abdomen, dipping low on the hard line of his hips. Stiles's eyes follows the droplets against his will.

And Stiles is staring at his big, long, and maybe a little scary--

Face.

His eyes dart up.

Yeah. Face.

He's looking at his face. Face face face.

Face.

Only face. Derek is a floating head with just a face. Yep.

He doesn't see anything but face.

He's only a stammering mess because of face.

Face.

How many times can Stiles think _face_ before it's fact? He's not sure.

Is that _real_?

Stiles shakes his head.

Oh my _GOD._

Stiles shakes his head again. Derek grabs a towel, his expression shifting from angry to puzzled.

“Are you having a seizure? Should I be concerned?” He doesn't sound the last bit concerned.

“Face!” Stiles yells. Which doesn't make sense. Because Derek isn't in his brain and Derek doesn't seem to realize that Stiles just saw his-- face. So yelling the word certainly isn't helping.

At least he yelled _face_ instead of--

“Stiles?” Derek raises an eyebrow, anger suddenly forgotten in lieu of something more entertaining. Because Stiles probably looks like he's having a stroke which Derek would probably delight in.

“You know what? You're fine. I mean. You're okay. That's what... you're. You're. Healthy. Yeah. That's the word. You don't need my help. I'm like. I'm gonna go. So.”

Stiles spins on his heel and stumbles out the door, tripping rather dramatically on his way out because _hey no cool storm outs for Stiles like ever._ And Derek's just standing there, watching from the bathroom door with a fluffy white towel around his--

face.

Fuck.

**2\. In the Space Between His Fingers**

“Scott,” Stiles says and he's all seriousness when he does so. It makes Scott perk up, that intense, heroic look settling on his face as he leans over his desk to look Stiles in the eye.

It makes the rest of Stiles's sentence sound terrible.

“Scott, I'm gonna need to see your dick.”

Scott actually snaps his pencil in half. “What?”

“Nothing crazy. I just need to. You know. See it. Consider it a test of our friendship.”

“Stiles.” Scott's mouth hangs open for a moment. He's speechless. Then he finally responds with a firm “No.”

The bell rings and they head for the locker room.

“It doesn't have to be weird, you know,” Stiles argues, because he's determined. “I mean best friends see each other naked, Scott. This is a thing that happens.”

“Is it?” Scott is beyond dubious. “I don't think it is.”

“It totally is. I mean. Girls go to the bathroom with their best friends all the time.”

“Not to look at each other _naked,_ Stiles.”

“Huh. Weird. That's what I would do.”

“That's what you're _trying to do now._ ” Scott stops just outside the locker room as the rest of the lacrosse team starts piling in until the two of them are alone. “I'm going to regret asking you this. Why, Stiles? Why are you suddenly so interested in my dick?”

Stiles grins nervously. His explanation at least _starts_ strong. “Just want to see. You know. How. Big. It is.”

Scott is mortified. Completely. “ _Why?!_ ”

“For. You know. Comparison purposes. I mean, Scott, isn't it weird that I _haven't_ seen it by now? I mean, boys. They compare. They measure. They have sword fights.”

“I... I don't even know how to respond to that,” Scott says. “ _Sword fights?_ ”

“Scott, you've gone through life misinformed.”

“Yeah, my best friend is a nutjob. I have been severely misinformed about that.” He rolls his eyes. “Stiles, I'm sure your dick is completely normal, okay? End of discussion.”

“But if my dick is normal then Derek's gotta be a fucking monster-”

“What?”

“What?” Stiles echoes because that's all he can do after spouting a sentence he wishes he could physically take back. Like reach out with his fingers and pluck the words out of thin air and shove them back in his mouth and swallow. Too late.

The silence is deafening.

“Okay then.” Scott holds up his hands, done, and gracefully spins away into the locker room, like maybe if he leaves the room the sentence will stay there, like he never heard it.

“Scott. Scottttt,” Stiles groans, chasing after him. “Don't leave meeeeee.”

Scott doesn't talk to him for the rest of the day. So Stiles kind of deserves that. Scott needs time to process that Stiles has seen the alpha's...

Well, Stiles can't really substitute _face_ anymore, as much as he wants to. But he would at least like to explain himself. Because telling his best friend that he'd seen another man's cock wasn't a great way to start asking Scott to see his. Or any others actually.

So maybe Stiles is a little insecure about it. He doesn't care. He just wants to compare. But what if it's like part of the werewolf thing that you get like super well-endowed? Stiles might be a little more on board for turning if that's the case. Like maybe.

Probably not.

But he's never going to know unless he sees Scott's. Or Isaac's, he guesses. But considering how well the conversation went with Scott, Stiles severely doubts asking Isaac will go any better. Then again, Isaac's always got this look on his face that he kind of wants to get into everybody's pants, so maybe.

Luckily Scott actually decides to talk to him on the bus before Stiles can scoot in next to Isaac.

“Okay, I don't. I don't really want to process this, but I have to ask. _How_ did you see... it?”

He knew the curiosity would get the better of him. He knew it.

Okay he didn't know. But yeah.

“It's not what you think,” Stiles clarifies immediately. “I mean, not that I know what you're thinking or anything-”

“Stiles.”

“Anyway. He got into a little scramble with some betas, right? Trying to hone in on his alpha turf and all that. And he was like. Okay, I guess. But he needed a shower, so he borrowed mine. And after all the crazy stuff that's been going on I guess I just figured I'd keep an eye on him, y'know? Make sure he didn't die or anything.”

“In the shower?” Scott is about as amused by this information as Derek was, but there is a little bit of pity in his eyes. Because he gets it to a degree. Stiles did nearly burn to death with Scott after all. That's true friendship. “Okay, I guess I'll accept that. Your mind works in warped way sometimes. Continue.”

“Well we started arguing-”

“Like you do.”

“Exactly. We started arguing and then he got mad and he like ripped the curtain back and I just. I. Saw it.” Stiles sighs heavily. “I didn't mean to look. And it was only for a second. But I saw it.”

“Okay, hold on. You saw it on accident. And now you're freaking out because...”

“Because it was.... it was huge, Scott. Like porn huge or something.”

Scott holds up two fingers next to one another and then slowly slides them apart, eyes growing more horrified the longer it takes Stiles to stop him.

“There,” he says. “About that.”

Scott looks at the length between his fingers and raises his eyebrows. “You're lying,” he accuses.

Well, at least Stiles knows he's not the freak in the equation.

“Nope.”

And then Scott says something that reminds Stiles that he is indeed his best friend ever of all time.

“Okay, I have to have proof of this.”

**3\. In the Club, Gettin' Drunk**

“Did we have to recruit Isaac?”

“Yes, we did,” Scott replies with ease. “Because Derek never agrees to meet _us_ anywhere.”

“Okay, that's fair. But did he have to bring Cora of all people? Does she even know about...” Stiles pauses, drops his voice. “ _The mission?_ ”

“I have werewolf ears you jackass,” Cora says, so very much like her brother, rolling her eyes so hard that Stiles is waiting from them to pop out of her skull. “And cut the codenames. I'm well aware of how bad you want to see my brother's dick. Why? I don't know. But it'll be entertaining to watch him strangle you.”

“I don't feel like we should trust her,” Stiles mutters, threatened. He may not be all that scared of Derek anymore (or at least he's not scared of _most_ of him, maybe just _parts_ of him at this point), but Cora still strikes him as pretty dangerous.

“Good. Don't. Trust no one,” Cora seethes, like she's teaching them some kind of lesson. “I don't really get why all three of you are so involved. Have you ever thought of just _asking_ Derek?”

“You don't _ask_ Derek anything. Don't you know your own brother?” Stiles argues.

“Not really, no,” Cora deadpans back, giving Stiles a look that is so _dead on Derek_ that Stiles actually takes a small step back. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“Sorry,” Stiles admits, feeling a little bad.

Isaac is sitting back on the couch across from them, basking in the glow of a purple shaded lamp. He's got a glass of wine in his hand and basically looks like the richest asshole that's ever existed. Him and his scarves and sweaters. Pfft. Scott is next to him, looking remarkably more uncomfortable by the minute, tapping his fingers against each other. He's got a beer sweating on the table in front of him.

The club hasn't even started picking up yet. It's too early in the evening – if you count midnight as early. People are straggling their way in, but it's pretty quiet. Stiles glances at his fake ID in his wallet, a little impressed that they got in and got drinks without questions. Danny knows a guy. Danny is marvelous. Danny probably _is_ the guy, to be honest, but he's got to keep his name off of stuff in case the police find out. Considering Stiles's dad is a sheriff? Yeah, dangerous game. Like _Hunger Games_ dangerous. But whatever.

“So Derek's gonna show?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, he'll show,” Isaac says. “If he wouldn't show for me, he'll definitely show for his sister. Being here. With me.”

“I'm not here with you.”

“I know that. But he doesn't.”

“Yes he does.” Cora crosses her legs, her skirt riding up just so on her hip. “You guys really think he's stupid, don't you?”

“No, but he's protective as hell,” Isaac argues, taking a swig on his wine.

“Stop it.” Cora takes the wine out of his hand and sets it on the table. “You look like an asshole.”

“Right?” Stiles chimes in, gesturing widely at Isaac. “Dude, you gotta stop looking so Bond-villain-y.”

“He really does,” Derek says from directly behind Stiles and it spooks him right out of his seat.

Which Derek proceeds to steal, sliding right in next to his sister. “Hello,” he greets. “You wanna tell me why I'm here?”

“Hey,” Stiles squeaks, staring Derek right in the face (actually the face this time, whaddya know). “Sup.” Stiles is so lame sometimes he wonders how he fucking functions in any kind of society. He wonders if he should go running into the woods and live in the wilderness, but then he's reminded that he's got a pretty good amount of wilderness staring him down at the moment and they're in the middle of a swanky club in L.A., just out of town.

“Stiles thought it would be a good idea for us to let loose,” Cora explains, throwing all the blame on him, which is unfair because it's not like this was all his idea.

Okay, maybe it was his idea. Coming up with ways to see someone's cock indirectly is tough.

Smuggling wolfsbane-laced alcohol into a club is tougher, but Stiles has done that too so.

“Really,” Derek looks dubious as Stiles settles in the seat next to him, a little nervous.

“Yeah, really,” Stiles scoffs. “What's your poison, Hale?”

“Nothing,” Derek replies blandly. “I don't get drunk, remember?”

“You must like the taste of something at least.”

Derek glances at Stiles's glass sitting on the table, only half-full with ice melting in it. “Whiskey on the rocks? Never struck me as a whiskey drinker.”

“Yeah, well, it's all Dad ever kept in the house,” Stiles replies. “All I ever learned to drink.”

“Bourbon and coke then,” Derek says. “And you have to try it.”

Cora smirks into her drink, straight rum, which Stiles cannot even fathom. “Here,” she says suddenly, entertained. “Try it.”

Stiles takes her drink and sniffs it. Dangerous ground. He sips it and it fries into his throat, bitter and strong. He starts hacking, handing Cora her drink with teary eyes. Derek is beyond amused at the scene.

“That. That is terrible,” Stiles says.

“Whiskey isn't any better,” Derek argues. “Can't handle a little Captain Morgan?”

“Derek, don't insult me. This is Sailor Jerry's. Besides, he's drinking his whiskey with _ice_. Not exactly the manliest way to take it. Then again, you take your bourbon with coke.”

“Which is what normal people cut their rum with,” Derek snarks.

“Yeah, well, we've never been normal.” Cora knocks her drink back and then smirks at Stiles. “I think Stilinski agrees, don't you? Hanging out with all these _freaks of nature_ and everything.”

Stiles is actually threatened now. Like really legitimately so. Because the connotations in that sentence are _maddening._ He swallows thickly.

“Yeah, well, I manage okay.”

“Scott, you haven't said anything. What's on your mind?” Cora is queen of the table. Seriously, Derek is the only one that doesn't seem to realize that she holds them all in the soft, pale palm of her hand. “Something bothering you?”

Scott has been staring at Derek this entire time. Which is fine because that's what Stiles has been doing. Scott just sucks at subtlety.

“Nope,” Scott says with ease.

Cora orders another glass of rum when Derek's drink arrives. Derek takes a swig of it and places it on the table.

“You wanna try that?” he asks, pointing to it.

“Uhhh. Sure.”

Stiles takes it. Scott sees the opportunity and knocks his beer into Derek's lap “accidentally”. “Whoops!”

“Ack, god damn it, Scott,” Derek huffs, jumping up off the couch and brushing it off. “You think you can manage reflexes once in awhile? Jeez.” He takes off for the bathroom to dry off.

Stiles knocks back about half of Derek's drink in one go and then refills it with Lydia's special wolfsbane-laced-alcohol. He's pretty buzzed when Derek gets back to the table. He also feels like a horrible person.

“This is so stupid,” Cora says, knocking back her drink. “How you feelin', Stilinski?”

“Fine,” Stiles lies, talking a little slow. Isaac reaches for his wine again and Stiles smacks his hand. “Fuck you, Isaac. You don't drink wine in clubs. You drink it in lounges.”

“You're a little tipsy,” Isaac states, hardly phased. He drinks his wine anyway. “See, Stiles, I can't drink to get drunk anymore, so I prefer the taste.”

“So it's basically just grape juice to you now,” Scott says.

“Yeah, basically. What I can't like grape juice?”

“Juice is cheaper than liquor,” Derek adds, taking a long swig on his drink without effort. “We all know you order it so you can swish it around in the glass.”

Isaac flushes a little, knitting his eyebrows together. “Why am I here again?”

It is easily the most uncomfortable Stiles thinks they've all been in a long time. The elephant in the room has to do with Derek's genitals and Cora is enjoying it too much and Stiles is actually a little too tipsy to keep going through with this plan.

But he's also tipsy enough to keep going anyway. Fucking lightweight. He knows that he is. Fuck it. The music is starting to kick up and people are starting to hit the floor and grind. Stiles watches with half-lidded eyes and he keeps drinking even though he knows he shouldn't. But drunk Stiles prefers to be more drunk.

“How did he get that much more drunk while I was gone?” Derek asks, eying Stiles warily.

“I have no idea,” Cora lies. Stiles actually expects her to tell the truth for a second, but she seems to find the idea of the lie to be much more entertaining. “Why don't we go dance, Isaac?”

“I'm not okay with that.” Derek starts to protest, but then he cocks his head a little, puzzled at how slurred the sentence leaves his mouth.

“Which is why I decided to ask him.”

“Y'know, I'm actually good,” Isaac starts to say, still a little terrified of her but she grabs him by the wrist and drags him off.

Stiles wonders why Cora and Lydia don't get along better. It's probably for the best. They'd take over the entire planet. Derek stares down his nearly empty drink with glazed eyes. He catches Stiles staring.

“What?” Derek furrows his brows in confusion.

Stiles shrugs because he really know what else to do. Except maybe continue the plan. Even if his brain isn't at full working capacity.

“I dunno, dude. We should dance. You want to dance? Scott, let's dance with Derek.”

“What?” Scott makes a face. Stiles remembers that Scott is the only sober one left at the table.

Stiles grabs Derek by the arm and pulls him off the couch. Derek stumbles. He actually stumbles.

There's something very satisfying in that. Even drunk, Stiles can appreciate it. Werewolves go through a lot of shit. Stiles thinks they should get the opportunity to get wasted more often. He eyes Scott intensely, holding Derek steady on his feet. “Come on, Scott.”

“Why are you trying to get Scott to dance with us?” Derek slurs, breathing against Stiles's forehead as he steadies himself.

“Because he doesn't believe me,” Stiles says, a little too loud and a little too drunk. Scott gets this weird panicky look on his face and starts waving his hands in a _cease-and-desist_ motion. “He's gotta get close so he _knows._ ”

“Knows about what?”

“Stiles, Derek isn't actually involved in this plan--” Scott starts, reaching to break them apart.

“Nooooo,” Stiles groans, tangling his arms around Derek's neck and swaying.

His body slides a little casually against Derek's, and he feels it. Oh man, he feels it. Derek might have made a noise in his throat.

He sees it in his mind's eye. Oh god. Stiles stumbles away from him, tripping over the table.

“I needanofer drink,” he slurs.

“I think you've had enough,” Scott says cautiously. Stiles pops back up, the world shifting a little under his feet. He grins.

“Nah, dude. I'm great. I'm fantastic. Dance with Derek.”

“You dance with Derek,” Scott gripes and that is totally not the plan and that is not fair.

“I already know what his dick is like!” Stiles yells.

People actually look up. Scott is mortified. Derek is drunk, but not too drunk to realize he's the center of attention.

“What?” he says, and Stiles can't read his face.

“I godda pee,” Stiles announces, stumbling away.

“Don't leave on that note!” Scott yells, infuriated. “Stiles, get your ass back here!”

And he's dragging Derek after Stiles, yanking him into the bathroom. The music is booming just outside the walls. Derek leans into the cold tile wall with a grunt.

“Stiles, you weren't supposed to yell out the plan!” Scott whines, angry and blushing pretty heartily even though Stiles is the virgin in the room.

“Show him your dick!” Stiles shouts instead and it echoes in the bathroom. When it catches Stiles's ears, he actually hears it.

Like he hears it.

Oooh. Wow. No more drinking for Stiles.

Derek laughs. He actually laughs. Literally and physically laughs. He just dissolves into this strange fit of giggles, and it's kind of scary because Derek doesn't laugh like that. Ever. Seriously ever.

“Okay,” he says.

That's even scarier. Stiles can feel the alcohol chilling in his veins, sobriety washing over him as Derek unzips his fly. He tries not to think about how his mouth is watering.

**4\. In the Woods, Over the River, Not On the Way to Grandma's**

They're fighting betas. Well. Derek's fighting betas. Stiles is kind of hiding in the bushes because he's a little more than outmatched, and he's trying to figure out the best way to take down the fucking flock of them that showed up.

Yes, he's aware they're not a _flock_ , they're a _pack_ , but fuck everything. That is not important right now. He's not really sure how they got separated from Scott and Isaac, and he's even more confused as to how this many werewolves have descended on Beacon Hills without a soul noticing, but both of these things have happened. Stiles ducks as Derek is thrown back into a tree and it cracks under his spine, splintering and toppling to the ground.

Shiiiiiit.

Shiiiiiit shit shiiit.

These guys are kind of tough. Derek's also hungover so he's not really at his best. Luckily, he remembers nothing of the night before. Scott does though. Scott will never forget. Neither will Stiles.

“Derek! You okay?”

Derek groans from the pile of broken tree, sitting up and shaking the dirt out of his hair. He's got blood running from cuts all over, but they're already healing albeit slowly. “I'll live,” he grumbles, flexing his hands, his claws popping out.

“Okay, maybe we should find Scott and Isaac and team up? Maybe? Is that an idea?”

Derek spits blood, ignoring him.

“Derek. Let's not go running into a fight without thinking. That _never works for you!_ ”

“Shut _up_ Stiles!” Derek yells, irritated, readying for attack. He's still got pieces of wood lodged in his skin. Ugh wow.

“ _No_ Derek!” Stiles argues, grabbing Derek by the back of his jacket and running into the trees, dragging the alpha behind him. “We gotta regroup!”

“Let go!” Derek swings at Stiles's head and Stiles ducks, toppling to the ground, losing his grip on his leather jacket.

“No!” Stiles tries clambering to his feet, grabbing Derek around the knees and pulling him to the ground. “You're not healing fast enough to fight them right now and--”

He looks up and he's face to face with Derek's crotch. Actually, he's pretty much buried nose-deep in it. Derek stares down at him, horrified. There's no secrets in those tight jeans. Seriously, Stiles is not sure how he didn't know Derek was packing before now. Then again it's not like he's been looking. Like not _really really_ looking. Stiles licks his lips absently, his eyes sliding up to Derek's, terrified and maybe a little or a lot of something else. Because it's not like he's been thinking about the guy's cock for three days or anything. Derek slides his fingers into Stiles's hair. Stiles feels his heart jump and his own dick twitch, and then Derek is pulling his hair, and pulling his head right off of him.

“Ow ow ow!” Stiles yelps as Derek gets to his feet, not letting go of Stiles's hair and pulling him to his own feet.

“You get a good whiff?” Derek growls, letting go _finally_. “Jesus Christ, Stiles.”

“I. What?” Stiles really wants to laugh it off. Like he really does. But his mouth is dry and he doesn't want to think about why. His jeans are uncomfortable. Derek's just standing there, looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“You stayed down there an awfully long time,” Derek prods.

“I uh. Didn't know. What. To do.”

“Well, options are slim with your face in my crotch.” Derek is exasperated.

Stiles blushes. “My bad okay? I don't come face to face with peen every day. Give me a break!”

Derek starts to say something else but a beta comes crashing through the trees and Derek's forced to save that conversation for another day.

Like maybe never.

Never's good.

**5\. In Fantasyland, the Happiest Place on Earth**

Isaac is an asshole, but he doesn't like being called one apparently.

Stiles isn't sure how Isaac got a picture of Derek in his very snug boxer briefs, but somehow he managed without Hale's knowledge. And he's plastered it all over Stiles's room in some really fucked up form of vengeance. He leaves a note just in case it doesn't hit home.

_How's that wine taste, Stilinski? Fuck you. -Isaac_

Yay friendship.

Stiles rips them down in a huff and pretends that he doesn't look at them for longer than necessary. Because it's not like Derek looks like some Abercrombie and Fitch model or something. Except in that he totally does. Which is really really unfair. Stiles stares at one of them for a long time, standing there in his bedroom with it in his hands. Isaac's such a dick. He even put it in black and white and made it look all artsy and shit. Like he's not using it to torture Stiles.

Like Stiles hasn't been thinking in terms of this exact picture for days. Ugh. Ugh ugh ugh. It should be illegal to look like that every day...

Stiles swallows a little shakily before crumbling up the thing and throwing it and all other copies away. He needs a shower.

For reasons.

With the hot water jetting down his skin, his mind starts to wander. And maybe his hands do too.

Yeah, it's really unfair that Derek turned out attractive. Then again, his life is far from perfect so a nice face and a rocking body probably aren't worth all the death and destruction. He wonders what Derek is like in happier moments, when he groans a name into someone's ear, the rough callouses of his fingertips on skin. Stiles closes his eyes, feels the ghostly hands slide over his own skin, dipping into crevasses and tracing lines on his body. He can see Derek's eyes, calculating and interested, watching him. He can see the hard line of his jaw and the width of his shoulders, the long line of his hip. And--

Stiles groans, low in his throat, sliding a hand over his cock, his heart thready in his chest. His eyes roll upward in his head, and he's gone, lost to something that doesn't actually exist. Derek's phantom hands are everywhere, his breath hushed in Stiles's ears, and he mumbles Derek's name. Once, twice, three times.

When he comes, he feels like Derek is wrapped around him, hot and smothering in the steam of the shower.

Stiles feels better. Guilty as fuck, but better. He's been thinking about it all week, and he figures getting it out of his system is exactly what he needed. People whack off to their friends, right? That's not weird right?

He gets dressed and opens his bathroom door with a relieved sigh.

He sees Derek sitting on his windowsill.

“You dropped your ID in the woods,” Derek says quietly, staring. There's a special kind of horror in his eyes.

Stiles turns back around and locks himself in the bathroom.

***Derek Does Something About It**

Stiles needs to confront this. He really really needs to.

Except he doesn't want to. Like at all. If he could avoid it and Derek for the rest of his life, he would happily do so because he is pretty much more embarrassed than he has ever been. Which is saying something. Because his life is pretty much ninety percent embarrassment and ten percent humiliation. Still, he avoids it as much as he can. Then Beacon Hills beckons and he's stuck doing the very thing he's been trying to stay away from.

“I got the map,” Stiles says quietly, standing all the way across the loft from Derek.

Derek looks up from the table, raising an eyebrow at the massive amount of distance between them.

“Okay,” he says, standing there, waiting for Stiles to come further in.

“Yeah, so.” Stiles sets it gently on the floor by his feet and starts to back out the door.

“Really?” Derek rolls his eyes, stomping over to pick it up. “I'm not a rabid beast, Stiles.”

Derek actually looks a little disappointed that Stiles has gone back to being terrified of him. What? Stiles laughs nervously.

“Haaa... I know that. Well, I mean, most of the time you're not. At least.”

“Fair enough,” Derek says, crouching down and picking the map up; lifts his head and looks up at Stiles through long black eyelashes.

This is not an angle Stiles is okay with. This is never an angle Stiles is okay with.

He makes a noise. It's quiet, but Derek hears it. Stiles can tell by the sudden glint in his eye, the twitch of his eyebrow.

“Are you okay?” he finally asks, like it took him a long time to figure out how to word the simple question.

Stiles chews his lip and nods a little too quickly.

“Are you sure?” There's amusement playing at the corners of Derek's lips, ridicule dripping on the tip of his tongue. He stands up slowly, rising before Stiles like some fucking Greek Adonis, just waiting for the truth. When Stiles doesn't provide (he might be stuck staring), Derek finally adds, “Do you need a shower?”

Stiles really wants to punch Derek. So bad. But that would require touching him and. Well. Okay, that'd be fine too. Stiles would be okay with that. Except that he is totally not.

Stiles remembers that oxygen is actually required to live and suddenly gulps air he's been holding, coughing and hacking all over the place. He can't even come up with a witty retort because he's choking. Derek waits patiently, smirking because he's a smug little bastard even while Stiles is fucking _dying_ , yes, literally _dying_ of humiliation.

He's sure that'll be on his death certificate. Stiles Stilinski: Dead from Humiliation.

“Do you need CPR?” Derek adds, rubbing salt into the wound. “Could you handle that?”

“Ihateyousomuch,” Stiles wheezes, sticking out an arm to grip Derek's shoulder as he sees spots in front of his eyes.

“Mm, I don't think you do.”

“Stop enjoying this.” Stiles finally catches his breath, his chest heaving dramatically, because Derek should deserve to think Stiles is dying. Because he totally is damn it. “I know you get very few pleasures out of life, but that doesn't give you the right to this one.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Breathe, Stiles. It's fine.”

“Whaaa?” Stiles's head pops up so fast he almost breaks his neck. “What do you mean _fine?_ I know what you heard.” He's not even going to deny it. It's not like any lame excuse would work, and Derek would know he was lying anyway.

“Let's be fair. I _told_ you I'd make you moan into the curtain. In a way, I'm pretty pleased I made good on my threat without trying.”

Stiles glares and falters for a response. Derek smirks, but he actually looks a little... fond. Weird.

Stiles finally yells without thinking – which he really thinks he shouldn't do anymore, because it never turns out well:

“Oh, no. No no no! Don't you even start with a whole _my dick is the alpha_ thing, okay? No.”

Derek's eyebrows raise even higher on his head, and he lets out a little breath like he's trying very hard to process the sentence. And then he starts laughing. Stiles stares.

“Oh my god. Did you really just--” Derek shakes his head. “ _Stiles._ ” Derek laughs again. “My dick is the _alpha_? Really?”

“Yeah.” Stiles decides to just own it. Because sometimes you just have to own things. “You have an alpha dick. There I said it.”

Derek is laughing way too hard it and it makes Stiles feel stupid. Which hey, par for the course so. But seriously, Derek is hunched over with tears in his eyes, cracking the fuck up.

“Oh man.” Derek gets it together after a minute. “That is probably the funniest thing I've heard all year.”

There's a certain level of pride in that, Stiles things. Then again, Derek's life isn't a barrel of laughs.

“I'm gonna leave now,” Stiles states frigidly.

“No, no. Stiles, I'll stop.” Then he cups Stiles's face in his hand and teases in the huskiest voice he can muster, “But do you want me to stop?”

“Oh my _God_ , you are literally the worst person ever. Besides Peter.” Stiles shoves at Derek's chest, but ends up stumbling a little. Ends up closer. Nose to nose actually.

And he's actually staring at Derek's face. And not because he has to. He's just looking him right in the eyes. And after all the craziness of the week, all the things he's _seen_ and _envisioned_ , this... _this_ takes his breath away.

How they end up kissing, Stiles has no clue. But he tries not to question these things. Especially when there's tongue in his mouth. He moans into Derek's mouth, feeling the hard wall slam against his back as Derek pushes him backwards. Stiles wraps his legs around the guy, long and spindly, like they'll get tangled on the other side, like his hands are in his hair. Derek breaks apart for just a second to pull Stiles's shirt over his head, pulling him back in and stumbling to his bed. The mattress is much softer than the wall.

Wait. What's happening?

Is this really happening?

Derek tongues at Stiles's neck and he can feel a long hard line against his thigh.

Yep. It's happening. _That_ is definitely happening.

“Hey, wait a second,” Stiles says, joy flooding his entire body. “You. You're hard for me. For _me!_ HA! ME!”

“I thought that was a little self explanatory,” Derek grumbles, eyes narrowing.

“It totally is, alpha dick! But like me! For me! Who's moaning whose name now?!”

Derek makes a frustrated noise. “It would be both of us if you would stop talking.”

Stiles pauses. “Oh.”

The next day, the pack is gathered around the table, trying to figure all these things out about the attacking werewolves and all the other crazy shit that happens in Beacon Hills. Derek brushes by Scott and he makes a face.

“Is that... Is that ladies' shampoo?”

**End**


End file.
